When will I ever write something of meaning?

Something that’s beautiful, poetic?

I always talk and talk about how I want to become this poet that people will love. But I never write anything that comes close to ‘touching’. It seems I’m as slack when it comes to putting things in writing as I am at contributing to conversations.

I love words, but they leave me whenever I need them the most.

You leave me, whenever I feel we connect the most.

You get carried away above the big blue,
To a city that dares only close its eyes for a blink.

When will your own eyes open for me?
Are they already?
Though hidden in the night?

They shine such a wonderful green,
I can stare into them for days –
If only on a picture, I’m mesmerized yet.

You frighten me, greeting the world.

In my book of love stories,
It was just you and I.
Just a simple house.
A simple meal.

And a dozen rabbits.
I know,
You’ll always bring them with you.

But do me a favor –
Just a last one before you leave;

Bring me one more smile.

Like the one on our first, lovely eve.


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